There are only two dreams which I can remember from my childhood.
In by far the worse of the two, I am pursued through a deserted tar and concrete cityscape by a Brontosaurus.
I must have been around eight or nine years old and that dream frightened me so badly that I remember it to this day.
Eventually the symbol for fearsome creature was replaced in my dream imagery by big cats – lions, tigers and panthers – and they were usually menacing someone I loved, rather than myself. I remember more than one terrifying nightmare where the big cats were after my son, and I seemed powerless to stop them.
Today in waking consciousness I am more likely to be scared of a couple of tons of metal and plastic alloy barelling through life’s spaces with a semi-somnolent anthropoid at the controls than I am of dinosaurs or lions.
But that’s just the shape of the threat morphing. As far as I know, the threat is the same within this dimensional existance; something huge, something excessively powerful, something not quite under any form of rational control.
My baseline fear is this massive, seemingly unstoppable force which can easily swat the life from a fragile, unarmoured mortal body; which cannot be reasoned with and whose blows are shockingly fast, almost infinitely powerful and swiftly lethal.
In fact, my baseline fear has a name which has swum up out of my un-indexed mind just last night and the recollection of which has prompted me to draw an old trilogy of fiction by CS Lewis into my Kindle. It is
“Some rise. Some fall. Some climb. To get to Terrapin”
And here we are.
A dream involving fire will always capture my waking attention, ever since I dreamed of fire and a Lamborghini before a 2-car crash and burn some years ago.
So last night’s dream needs recording and I’m doing it here as writing in my dream diary has become haphazard.
There were three dreams, actually, all of them interesting to me.
The first was a lovely dream of me explaining to anothe part of Me the spiritual underpinnings of Samhain, while in the corner of the room a creature I knew as the Ancestor Spirit supported and inspired me. Although this creature looked like a version of the Fisher King from Doctor Who, I was not afraid at all, rather comforted. I was lying on a bed with another part of me beside me, holding my hand.
Moving on into the next dream I found myself in a beautiful bathroom, the legacy of the woman who had lived in “this house” before me. Blue and white tiled and mosaiced, this room featured all sorts of luxurious plumbing, some of which I had never seen before. it was also larger than it appeared at first glance, having annexed room space for a dressingroom.
From the bathroom I walked into the third dream – on a grassy hillside at the end of Winter, preparing meat on hooks and sticks for cooking. A spark landed on the dry ground and a smouldering fire started. As the fire grew, myself and my companion moved the meat – to the bathroom – before it could catch fire.
End of the night’s dreams. Move forward into the morning, where low grey clouds obscure the predawn sky which so dazzled me yesterday. Rain coming, I hope.
There comes that morning every year when you notice – with something like a start – that the seasons have turned and that either Summer or Winter is really coming back.
That point in the annual round of the Earth about the Sun is said to coincide with the first day of Spring: the midway point between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox, or sometime in the first week in August for the Southern hemisphere heading away from Winter.
It probably depends upon the time you rise and are up-and-about, but for me this year that point was reached today and around 5:30 am.
Riding from Randburg to Sandton on the early morning Gautrain bus, I’ve grown used for months to the dark sky outlining the irritating lights of Sandton as we draw near the Centre of Greed. But this morning, as we rounded the corner from William Nicol into Ballyclare – turning East from South – I looked up from my Resident Anti-Hero reverie and saw the Shining City on the Mound of Murdered Lives struggling to outclass the jewel-blue and gold sky of the breaking dawn, backing trees so dark as to be almost black against the brilliant skycloth. My breath was taken. And the year was turned.
And no, I don’t wish I had taken a photo. it’s here in my mind, clear and bright and beautiful and unstained.
Photo from photowalkers
The Heritage Day long wekend started on Friday at work, I suppose, with colleagues pitching up in the traditional attire of their broad ancestral backgrounds.
If I hadn’t been so busy trying to pry a new desktop and some software out of the IT Department, I might have joined in by wearing a kilt and sash…no, who am I kidding? The acceptable female traditional garb for clans Anderson and McKay is something so long and trailing that I’d be bound to trip over it in the office.
Having closed the working week with the discovery of the software after almost 2 months, plus the delivery of the desktop machine to my office – where it could do no good and from where it would have to be carted down again to IT to be configured for our network but what the hel, at least it got here – I rode a very crowded Gaubus home for the start of a 3-day weekend.
Ah, bliss! To be able to sleep for as long as I like! And take naps throughout the day! And not worry about navigating the world of scurrying humans chasing their material wants!
It was also the end of the month, end of the groceries, end of the meat in the freezer. So Warren and I had to head for the local huge-and-noisy supermarket on Saturday to pick up more supplies.
This actually went a bit better than planned, as, after walking into and then promptly walking out of Northgate Pick n Pay, (undergoing renovations…just try to shop there, you’ll come out stressed as hell with half your shopping list) we chose instead to shop at Checkers, where we got a surprisingly good deal on the monthly groceries.
So Sunday was Braai Day and Warren obliged, grilling pork chops, steak and boerewors on the Weber while I supplied 4 kinds of salad. This is undoubtedly luxury eating for 2 humans and 2 dogs – but what is a weekend for, else?
Monday was the public holiday on which it dawned upon me that I had not topped up my Gaubus ticket, and wouldn’t be able to catch the 5 am bus into Sandton on Tuesday morning unless I found somewhere to put more money on it.
We drove down to the Pineslopes Spar – well stocked, clean (unlike the Pick n Pay) and best of all, open at 7am. unfortunately, the Gautrain ticket dispenser they have does just that – dispenses new Gautrain tickets, seemingly unable to top up your existing card. So we hopped across the road to Monte Casino, where for the first time I ventured further into the despised halls than the first coffee shop.
Hey Monte – what’s with the obvious psycho-scents? The gamblers’ shopping haven was deserted apart from security guards who scanned us for smuggled bombs and AK-47s before allowing us to wander the highly-polished cobblestone “streets” of the luxurious emporium.
All consumer outlets were firmly closed, of course; what punter with foolish money to burn on useless geegaws would be up and about at 7:30 on a holiday morning? Unless, like myself, you were looking for a place to sell you a bus card top-up.
I’m not at all impresed with Monte Casino on the inside, naturally. But what really sticks in my mind – and in my craw, leaving me with a vaguely nauseous after taste – is the all-pervading smell of cinnamon oil which Monte probably thinks will influence their fatuous customers to throw more money away on cheap expensive fluff.
The Yule influence continues apace, with dreams of people and situations dead for years disturbing my sleep almost nightly.
That’s not taking into account the horrible bout of bronchitis I’ve been working through since I contracted it about 2 weeks ago. Now it pops its head up as a night session of uncontrollable chills and body aches well over the stay-in-bed-and-fix-it line. So perhaps some of this midWinter dream horror is due to my system trying to fight back against life forms alien to its normal state of being, I’m not sure.
One thing I am sure about, however, is that my distaste for large swathes of humanity is being vindicated whenever I turn on the news channels or scroll through Twitter.
This by way of the affirmation that there really are people who voted for and supported Donald Trump. I mean, I couldn’t really understand it at first, as the man is so obviously an example of the very worst in humankind – a self-absorbed non-contibuting piece of meat with the manners and morals of a 5-year-old entitled brat. I thought that anybody could see this, especially since he’d not been particularly hidden in shadows before his presidential run. But no, apperently people are just really shit at seeing human garbage when it’s flailing its vengeful narcissism in their faces, or they see it and think it good.
Either way, I think we’ve been making a great case for a human extinction event in the very near future. Therefore, homo sapiens, it is with no sense of loss to the life on this planet that I wish you ave atque vale with all my heart. We may have tried, but not very hard. I think it’s time to quit the human experiment, now.